


Cruel Summer

by d_e_marcus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dom Deucalion (Teen Wolf), Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Protective Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski Has an Oral Fixation, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Top Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_e_marcus/pseuds/d_e_marcus
Summary: “Hello, Stiles.”The voice purrs in his ear, snapping him out of whatever cognitive spiral he fell into. The shiver that follows is from the draft when the door opened — that’s what he’ll tell himself later with no one around to hear the lie in his heartbeat.Because he knows that voice.And the man it belongs to.He swallows hard, dragging his eyes up to meet those stunningly bright blue ones that bring life, passion and — dare he say it — fire, to the face of none other than Peter Hale.Peter fucking Hale.———————————————Or the one where a research binge leads Stiles straight to a BDSM club and ends with him as Peter Hale's sub, boyfriend, and ultimately, his lover.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 110
Kudos: 318





	1. fever dream high

**Author's Note:**

> The fight with the Alpha pack never happened, so Deucalion is just a dick, not a murderous one. 
> 
> And yes, the fic idea came from a Taylor Swift song. You're welcome.

Things had slowed down in Beacon Hills.

College was out for the summer and time was a fickle and fluid thing; slow and lazy, a mix of pizza nights and video games, pool parties and part-time jobs, too much time with friends and too much time alone.

Even the pack didn’t meet up nearly as often anymore. Their 'Monster of the Week' miraculously lessened to one or two a month, at best.

So yes, everything had slowed down in Beacon Hills — everything except Stiles’ mind.

That, he thinks, is destined to run at full speed for the rest of his life, a constant battle that he’s losing even with medication and he hates it. It dominates every second of every fucking day.

At 2 am., when he should be asleep. At 10 a.m., when he’s running late for his shift at the coffee shop. At 5 p.m., when he’s supposed to bring heart-healthy meals to the station. All the fucking time.

He just wants some peace and quiet.

Well, maybe not the quiet, Stiles has never been good at that, but the peace would be nice. What he wouldn’t give for just five minutes of nothingness, no overthinking, no cascading thoughts or his brain acting like an Internet browser with 27 tabs open and —

“Hello, Stiles.”

The voice purrs in his ear, snapping him out of whatever cognitive spiral he fell into this time. The shiver that follows is from the draft when the door opened. At least, that’s what he’ll tell himself later in the dead of night with no one around to hear the lie in his heartbeat.

Because he _knows_ that voice.

And the man it belongs to.

He swallows hard, dragging his eyes up to meet those stunningly bright blue ones that bring life, passion and — dare he say it — fire, to the face of none other than Peter Hale.

Peter _fucking_ Hale.

The man who has single handedly haunted both his nightmares and his wet dreams. The man whose voice sends a shiver of fear _and_ arousal down his spine. The man who —

The man who is currently standing in front of the counter, eyeing Stiles thoughtfully. Stiles shakes his head and clears his throat.

“Uhm, welcome to Espresso Patronum, what can I do for — what can I get you?”

Stiles ducks his head grimacing, hoping that didn’t sound as painful as it felt leaving his mouth. He schools his features before looking up, taking on the best unaffected face he can muster on such short notice.

But he should know better.

Peter’s always been able to read Stiles like a book and, despite not having seen the man since the last pack meeting nearly a month ago, one look from him flays Stiles open, stripped bare and vulnerable. Raw.

When Peter's eyes finish their cursory assessment and return to his face, Stiles ducks his head again, well aware of the blush staining his cheeks and praying to every god he’s ever heard of that Peter can’t see it.

An odd noise passes between the werewolf’s lips, a cross between a hum of consideration and an epiphany, and Stiles reluctantly glances up, only catching Peter’s eyes for a brief second before his own are drawn to the corner of the man’s mouth, where it quirks up into some depiction of amusement.

A slow, wicked grin begins to spread and Stiles suddenly feels like prey.

“Medium mocha, no whip,” Peter murmurs, watching Stiles intently as he draws his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. “You know, Stiles, I figured you would have outgrown that by now.”

Stiles’ eyes flit over every inch of the man’s body before honing in on the hand reaching back — just in case he draws a claw or something, this is Peter Hale, after all — so intent on his movements that Stiles almost misses his words.

He rings up the coffee while he replays that last sentence over again in his head.

“Four dollars and thirty-five cents, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter hands over five singles, his hand lingering much too long after Stiles plucks them from his grasp. If Stiles slams the register drawer a little too hard, well, that’s his prerogative.

“Zoning out on the job, Stiles? Surely, you have more control than that,” Peter responds, just enough tease in his tone to avoid sounding condescending, but the point is made regardless. He drops his change in the tip jar before leaning forward, placing both hands flat on the counter top.

“And misusing your Adderall by the smell of it,” Peter whispers conspiratorially. “Shame on you, Stiles.”

Stiles inhales sharply, his mouth dropping open in shock. He can’t help but notice the way Peter’s eyes flick down to his lips and back again. His tongue swipes at his bottom lip out of habit and the man’s eyes track the movement. He feels caught.

For once in his life, Stiles has no idea what to say.

“Wha— how —”

Peter smirks.

“It’s always been fascinating to watch you bounce between ideas, making connections that no one else can, the way you process information so rapidly,” Peter muses, one finger tapping his chin. “It makes me wonder just what damage you could do with a little more control.”

“I’m doing just fine, thanks,” Stiles spits back, finally recovering his use of the English language. Just what exactly is Peter insinuating here? He should be pissed, but...Peter’s not wrong.

Peter hums again, eyeing him thoughtfully while Stiles shifts uncomfortably under those blue, blue eyes. Stiles releases the hem of his shirt the second he realizes he’s tugging at it, fidgeting, his eyes flitting back up to Peter’s soul-searching gaze.

“In fact, I used to know someone a lot like you,” Peter says, drawing Stiles back into the conversation. “He owns his own business now.”

Stiles can’t imagine running a business with his squirrel brain, let alone own one. For the sake of making small talk, Stiles clears his throat again before asking, “How’d he manage that?”

“Well, let’s just say I helped him quite a bit.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles scoffs, zero brain-to-mouth filter in place. “What did you do, murder him?”

Peter’s gaze darkens and Stiles steps back from the counter. Okay, that might have been a tad too far.

“Turns out,” Peter continues, seemingly no longer concerned with Stiles’ sass, “all he needed was a bit of discipline.”

Stiles barks out a laugh.

“Discipline?” he crows, “I’m the kid of a single parent who happens to be the Sheriff...discipline doesn’t work on me, dude. Obviously. C’mon who —”

“Perhaps,” Peter drawls, somehow languid and sharp at the same time, causing Stiles’ rebuttal to die in his throat, “you and I are speaking on different _types_ of discipline.”

Stiles scrunches his face in confusion, his eyebrows no doubt rivaling Derek’s, but he’s cut off before he can reply.

“Medium mocha, no whip,” Tina says as she reaches over Stiles to hand Peter his drink. The man accepts it coolly, nodding his thanks at Tina and smirking as she shuffles away blushing.

“Stiles,” Peter says with a firm tone, one that has Stiles snapping to attention, “Please bring me three napkins, two sugars and a stir stick.”

Back in customer service mode, Stiles grabs exactly three napkins, two sugars, and a stir stick from the back counter before presenting them wordlessly to the man in front of him, who has not once taken his eyes off of Stiles. Not for a single second.

Stiles looks up expectantly, all doe eyes and parted lips, and Peter reaches out slowly to clasp his large, warm hand around the items and, consequently, Stiles’ fingers. Stiles shivers at the contact.

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs before releasing Stiles’ hand. Goosebumps erupt on his skin and his face flushes, equally embarrassed and turned on at those words coming from Peter’s mouth and meant for him. Warmth is pooling in his gut and — nope, nah-uh, not happening. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and steps back from the counter, resuming his place at the register with not another word to Peter, who looks far too smug.

“See you around, Stiles,” he calls over his shoulder as he struts out the door, bell tinkling with his exit.

Stiles blows out an unsteady breath, unable to process what just happened. What the actual —

“Who the heck was that, Stiles?”

“Huh?”

Tina raises a disbelieving eyebrow before gesturing toward the door that Peter just left through, huffing impatiently when Stiles just stares at the spot where the man had been standing.

“Well?”

“He’s my worst nightmare,” Stiles mutters, picking up a rag to wipe down the counter. Tina’s high-pitched laugh rings out from behind him.

“I don’t know, Stiles,” she giggles, “he looks pretty _dreamy_ to me.”

It’s only after Stiles finishes wiping down the counters and replenishing the creamers that he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever completed a task without being sidetracked. Not a single thought floated through his mind for ten whole minutes.

Nothing other than Peter, that is.


	2. in the quiet of the night

Peter Hale is an asshole of epic proportions and Stiles will argue that ‘til the day he dies. The man is shady as hell, arrogant, creepy, selfish and — goddammit — he’s _smart._

Cunning. 

Because he knew, without a doubt, that Stiles would end up on a research binge, armed with an energy drink and boatload of courage, running a series of search engine queries on “discipline for ADHD” and other key phrases into the wee hours of the morning. 

So here he is on a Thursday night — which should arguably be spent playing Call of Duty, hanging with his bros or consuming ungodly amounts of Pringles and Red Bull — hunched over his computer desk with blood-shot eyes and tented boxer briefs. 

What Stiles finds, though, is enlightening to say the least. He combs through forum after forum, every one of them pointing toward the dark and mysterious world of BDSM. He’d heard of it, of course, but he never really explored much beyond reading 50 Shades of Grey when Lydia mentioned it and whatever video PornHub featured on any given week. 

As the night wears on, another key phrase enters, then monopolizes, his Google searches. Stiles is also sure Peter knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he said those words to Stiles (starts with ‘good’ and ends with ‘boy’), and how his body would betray him. 

The rat bastard. 

He falls farther into the Google-shaped rabbit hole face — dick — first.

Search after search, all roads lead to a website that requires an email for entry, and there’s only so long that Stiles can avoid the inevitable. He finally enters the email he created specifically for spam. The sheer number of NSFW pictures that pop up should be his first clue to abort mission, but he’s a glutton for punishment and innately curious. 

Again, _fuck_ Peter. 

Pictures, videos, stories, articles, lists and polls — it's all here, just waiting for him. 

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

Stiles learned a lot of things by 3 a.m. Namely, that energy drinks no longer work after the fifth one, he’s _definitely_ bisexual, and really, really, really interested in spankings — the good kind, specifically. 

If he had any doubts about his bisexuality before, those totally flew out the window when he drowned himself in male-on-male videos. 

Like he said, _enlightening._

The fact that he had a raging boner the entire time was practically mandatory. He’s an 20-year-old with lube and the Internet at his fingertips, plus a practically non-existent refractory period, of course he’s going to be — _ahem_ — interested _._

And if he wanked off to the same video twice, well, that is totally and completely normal, thank you very much.

Even if the sub trussed up in leather is young and long and lean, and the Dom standing behind him is mature, muscular, and donning a suit means absolutely nothing, _nothing._

When Stiles finally collapses from exhaustion, dreaming of large, agile hands that look like a certain werewolf’s, well…that means absolutely nothing either. 


	3. bad, bad boys

It was inevitable really, that Stiles would end up here, in a BDSM club more than an hour away from Beacon Hills. 

He told Scott, his best bro and gullible roommate, that he was going camping with his Dad. Stiles told his Dad that the apartment Stiles shares with Scott would be the base of operations for an epic video-game-and-movie-marathon extravaganza for the entire weekend and to not expect him to answer any calls, for the darkest depths of Mordor requests His Excellency’s presence.

If either of them talk to each other, or Melissa, he’s screwed. 

And not in the way he’s hoping for tonight. 

Maybe that’s a stretch.

More of a stretch than his pants at least, because those suckers are painted on and Stiles is beginning to second guess wearing the skinny jeans Lydia bought him. Point is, now that he’s actually _here,_ Stiles doubts his nerves will even get him as far as a normal conversation, let alone convincing someone to teach the token virgin what the B in BDSM actually stands for. 

He’s not actually a virgin, but he might as well be because he doesn’t have a clue what any of this means.

Although, this place looks a lot less dungeons and dragons and a lot more...swanky, upscale bar? Like, business meetings might actually occur here. 

_Huh_.

Color Stiles confused. Where are the whips, chains and handcuffs? The black leather couches and red velvet walls and black-out curtains? 

This doesn’t seem right, but a lot more inviting than what Stiles had envisioned, to say the least. The only thing that really confirms he’s in the right spot is the waiver he signed at the door and the lockbox he put his phone in. But businessmen value anonymity too, Stiles supposes, so maybe he _is_ in the wrong place and — 

A tall, fit woman dressed in all black walks by him, snapping him out of his tumbling thoughts as he realizes yeah, he’s definitely in the right spot. She smirks, and suddenly Stiles feels like dropping his gaze as she walks by. There’s just something about an Amazonian goddess in leather that says ‘don’t fuck with me’ and Stiles isn’t about to press his luck. 

He manages to make it to the bar without tripping and orders a water, the orange wristband they slipped on him at the door preventing him from buying anything with alcohol in it. 

His eyes make a sweeping pass around the room, hoping that he looks casual and not in over his head. A newbie. He notes a handful of ladies (and gentlemen) that he finds attractive, but no one that really grabs his attention. If anything, _he’s_ the one grabbing attention. He can’t help but feel like prey when he knows he sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He’s wearing fucking black skinny jeans and converse and everyone else is in three piece suits and cocktail dresses. Despite all the research, Stiles somehow missed the dress code memo. He swivels back around on the bar stool, clinging to his water like a life line and shoulders hunching as though that will deter the suddenly unwanted attention.

Fat chance. 

“Hey,” the soft, sweet voice over his left shoulder sounds like music to his ears. Stiles swivels on the barstool, only to flounder when he finds himself looking into green eyes set in a face so beautiful, Lydia would be jealous. 

“Uh.” 

Never say Stiles isn’t smooth. 

“First time here?” She smiles and it’s warm, comforting even. Stiles relaxes a tiny bit. 

“That obvious?” he grimaces before grinning at his own expense when she laughs airily. 

“Afraid so,” she replies, gliding into the chair next to him. “Figured I’d see if you had any questions or would like some company.” 

“Yes,” Stiles blurts, “to both of those.” 

She smiles indulgently, holding out a delicate hand for Stiles to shake. He prays to the Nemeton that his aren’t clammy. 

“My name is Scarlett.” 

“Stiles.”

“Interesting,” she muses, lips tugging at the corners thoughtfully. “And what made you want to come tonight, Stiles?” 

Her voice, while sweet and airy, takes on a sultry undertone that makes him think her question holds more innuendo that he first realized. It reminds him of a certain werewolf and it takes him a moment to respond. 

“Let’s just say I ended up on a research binge and learned quite a few things about myself, and I couldn’t stop at Google,” he pauses, then shrugs, “I had to know more.” 

“Fair enough,” she smiles, eyeballing him up and down in a matter-of-fact kind of way. He runs a hand through his messy hair and her eyes latch onto his long fingers, following them on the descent back to his glass. The heat in her gaze is evident, and Stiles is simultaneously aroused, dubious and confused. 

When her attention returns to his face, his cheeks heat and he has to look away. The droplets of water sliding down his glass are suddenly fascinating. 

“Are you a sub, Stiles?”

Stiles’ head snaps up, eyes wide. “I — ”

There’s no teasing look in her gaze, just calm curiosity. It gives him the courage to answer honestly. 

“Yeah, I think so,” he whispers, his answering nod somehow louder than the actual words. 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Stiles,” she replies softly, patting his bare forearm gently. He ducks his head again, doubtful. 

“In fact,” she whispers conspiratorially, leaning into his personal space and drawing his eyes down to the cleavage she’s exposed in the process. “I think you’re going to be a hot commodity around here.” 

“What?”

Surely he didn’t hear her right. She can’t possibly be suggesting that _he_ might be an object of attention when literally every other person in the room looks like they walked out of a Calvin Klein ad. Her especially. 

“You’re joking, right? I mean ther— ”

“I assure you, Stiles, I am most certainly not joking.” 

She states it as though it is a fact and she is not to be argued with. Just a few minutes ago, Stiles would have pegged her as a sub also, but now he’s not so sure.

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times before she realizes he’s at a loss for words. She laughs quietly, leaning into his space again before her hand rests on his upper leg, sliding down his thigh until her hand finds his. Her fingers intertwine with Stiles’ as she slips off the barstool and nods over her shoulder. 

“C’mon, I’ll prove it to you, handsome.”

Stiles was already planning on following her, but the term of endearment tacked on at the end there really did him in. He trails behind her like an excited puppy given the promise of a treat. 

They weave through the crowd, heading toward the opposite end of the bar where the VIP lounges rest along the wall. Stiles noticed them on his way in, but didn’t for a second think that he’d end up at one, let alone with such a gorgeous girl dragging him there. 

His dick is already half-hard and straining against the confines of his jeans. 

Stiles absently notices the looks he gets on the way, but he can’t focus on anything besides the curve of Scarlett's backside and the way her dress clings to her in the most teasing way. The sway of her hips and the feel of her hand is enough to keep Stiles entertained for hours, so when she stops in front of the corner booth, he feels oddly bereft. 

She tugs him forward, looping her arm around his waist and leaning her head against his shoulder before addressing the gentleman sprawled elegantly before them on the plush leather couch. 

“Look what I found, Sir,” she says coyly, batting her eyelashes up at Stiles.

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you’ve already found a play thing, Baby Girl?” 

The man’s voice is deep and it carries the stretch between them to wrap around Stiles like a vice. The slow cadence and breathy quality only add to its effect.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. 

“What’s your name, handsome?” 

The man addresses him directly, the pet name falling off his lips like he already knows how this is going to go. 

“Stiles.”

Stiles feels the inexplicable need to tack on ‘Sir’ at the end, but refrains and instead leaves the air feeling empty, wanting. 

“Stiles,” the man draws out his name like he’s tasting it. Stiles can’t read anything about the man because his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, but his body language just drips pure sex. His voice does, too. 

“My name is Deucalion, and you’ve already met Scarlett,” he says, gesturing to the woman hanging at his side. Stiles glances at the lady in red, but her attention is solely fixed on the man in front of them. 

He kind of has that effect on people. 

“We haven’t seen you here before,” Deaucalion muses, before asking, “Is this your first time?”

Stiles mouth runs dry, so he just nods. 

“Well, well,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. He leans forward to take a sip of the amber liquid in his tumbler before reclining back and spreading his legs. He pats his thigh and Scarlett's presence at Stiles’ side is suddenly gone. 

She walks quickly but smoothly around the table and sits down exactly where the man gestured. His arms wrap around her, one bringing her closer to his chest and the other lifting her legs over his lap so that she is cradled in his arms. She suddenly looks so young and vulnerable, as she whispers something against his neck, something that sounds an awful lot like “Did I do good, Master?” 

“You sure did, Princess,” the man croons, before sliding one hand in her hair and bringing her mouth to his. Scarlett moans, falling limp in the man’s arms as he devours her mouth with his lips and teeth and tongue. His hand slides along her thigh, inching closer and closer to the slit in her dress, and she squirms in his lap like she’s trying to draw his hand closer to her entrance. 

Stiles feels like he should avert his eyes, like he’s intruding on something intimate and beyond his sexual expertise, but he can’t look away. The rock hard erection pressing against the front of his jeans begs him not to. 

“Well, Stiles,” the man addresses him, snapping his attention back from the hand on her thigh to the dark sunglasses in front of him. Stiles feels like he’s standing in front of the teacher’s desk about to be reprimanded. He feels off balance and wants to sit, but the man hasn’t offered. 

“It seems that you’ve gotten my little Pet all worked up. What do you say about coming home to play with us, hmm?”

Stiles expects puppy dog eyes and an expert pout from Scarlett, but she’s too busy squirming on the man’s lap to care about echoing her Dom’s invite. 

Stiles is flattered and so, so very hard, but he hesitates. It’s his first time, shouldn’t there be a little bit more...discretion? 

Look, Stiles is just as red-blooded as the next guy, but he’s not so blinded as to miss the fact that this was just a little _too_ easy. Stiles could barely get Lydia Martin to look his way in high school and now he’s bagging the two hottest people in the room within five minutes of stepping foot in the door? Even he can see something is off about that, despite how badly his dick wants it to be true.

Life is not a porn video. 

As though sensing Stiles’ unease, the man speaks again. 

“We don’t even need a contract, handsome, we can just have some fun tonight and make sure your first experience is memorable.” 

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but someone beats him to it. 

“And we all know just what kind of memorable experiences you like to offer, Deucalion.”


	4. shiny toy with a price, you know that I bought it

Deucalion’s spine stiffens as the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on end.

What the fuck is _he_ doing here?

This can’t be happening. Stiles drove more than an hour away to avoid seeing anyone he knew! 

And yet, the presence looming over his shoulder is definitely the same one that starred in his dreams last night. Deucalion shifts in his seat, but Stiles is rooted to the spot. 

"Hale,” Deucalion says cooly, 180 degrees from the warm, seductive tone he used with Stiles just minutes ago. The man ignores Peter's implication, but Stiles doesn't care because whatever history these two have, it didn't end well — and he doesn't want to know. 

“Deucalion,” Peter states and somehow, Stiles can tell that Peter isn’t even looking at the man when he responds.

No, Peter’s eyes bore into the back of Stiles’ skull with such vigor that he can feel it, heavy on his skin like a brand. He resists the full-body shiver that Peter’s voice elicits. Just barely. 

“Stiles,” Peter makes his name sound like a chastisement and an entreaty at the same time.

Stiles turns slowly, eyes wide wide in innocence but cataloguing every detail on the man in two seconds flat. Hair slicked back, navy pinstripe suit, polished shoes, expensive watch. Peter is dressed to kill — though hopefully not literally.

“A word,” Peter says without room for argument, but Stiles is going to anyway.

“Uh, I’m kinda in the middle of something here.”

The sass and innuendo doesn’t quite hold up and he barely refrains from cringing at himself. Deucalion smiles nonetheless, grinning darkly like he’s just declared ‘ _Check_ ’ in their game of BDSM chess. Stiles doesn’t know which piece he’s supposed to play.

“It was not an open invitation, Stiles.”

Peter’s eyes are brighter than usual and the frustration is evident, but after years of proximity, Stiles can see the concern there, too. Agitation. Anyone else would miss it, but not him.

The seconds tick by as they stare at each other, neither one willing to break first, but Stiles, no matter how stubborn and unruly, is still no match for the wolf before him. He drops his gaze and wonders, not for the first time tonight, how this got so fucked up?

Stiles isn’t stupid, he knows there’s something off about Deucalion even if he can’t put his finger on what that may be. He’s dealt with enough supernatural creatures, liars, and murderers to know his own intuition is the best weapon _he_ can wield — he doesn’t need Peter to tell him that.

And that brings him back to his original question: why the hell is Peter even here at this club? And why is he stepping in now? 

The most logical answer is that Peter is just preventing a pack mate from making a mistake, but this seems different somehow. More poignant. Is Deucalion a werewolf, too? It wouldn't surprise him now that he thinks about it. Does he know about Stiles and the Hale pack? A thousand questions tumble like building blocks in his brain, but he needs to stay focused. He can’t worry about the man’s intentions right now, not when his own packmate is just three feet away and demanding ‘a word.'

When Peter makes demands, everyone listens.

Stiles takes a deep breath and collects himself before meeting Peter’s bright blue eyes once more, his own less defiant and more subdued this time. He can’t help but feel the tension bleed out of his body now that he’s submitting to Peter in some small way. It feels right.

How in the hell Stiles’ night got off to such a rocky start he has no idea, but this is definitely a turning point. And they all know it.

Peter holds his gaze for a few seconds longer, eyes flicking between Stiles' eyes and his mouth, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

_Check Mate._

Stiles stares after him, wondering just how screwed he’d be if he follows Peter...and just how screwed he’d be if he didn’t.

Stiles contemplates that for far too long, chewing his bottom lip until it's raw, and when he finally turns back around, it's to find Scarlett pouting petulantly and Deucalion awaiting his response. It’s clear from the man’s now relaxed posture and Cheshire grin, he’s confident Stiles will take him up on their offer and rebuff Peter completely.

But he doesn’t know their history, the tension, the chemistry, the unrequited lust.

He doesn’t know _them_.

“Um,” Stiles fumbles and the grin slowly fades from Deucalion’s thin lips. “I should be going now...it was nice to meet you.”

Deucalion remains silent, but Stiles can practically feel the intrigue and frustration beaming out from behind the man’s dark glasses.

“Bye, Scarlett,” Stiles tacks on at the end before scurrying away with his tail between his legs. He doesn’t make it very far before Deucalion’s voice rings out, stopping Stiles in his tracks. He's immediately struck with the feeling of being in danger, vulnerable with his back turned to Deucalion like this. 

“The offer is still open, Stiles, but not for long. Choose wisely.”

The message is clear and for that, Stiles has no reply.

He follows Peter’s head through the crowd before he loses sight of him completely toward the back of the room. Stiles breezes right past the security guard posted there and the first few doors lining the narrow hallway. He assumes this is where the fun stuff happens, but at this rate, he’s never going to find out.

Stiles exits through the staff door to find Peter waiting for him in the back parking lot with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He's somehow still devastatingly handsome. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” 

“I was just — ”

The look on Peter's face makes him second guess his off-the-cuff reply. He blows out a shaky breath and runs a hand through his already messy hair. What _is_ he doing here?

“I don’t know.” 

Peter’s eyebrow arches and he waits, knowing Stiles can’t stand the silence. 

“Oh c’mon, Peter,” Stiles snaps, “You know damn well why I’m here.” 

Stiles waits for the man to tell him he's stupid for coming here, that he shouldn't be in a place like this, blah blah blah, but Peter can't manage any words with how tightly his jaw is clenching. Stiles underestimated just how badly he pissed off the wolf.

“Fine,” Peter bites out, face hardening further as he snags Stiles by the arm and pulls him toward the front of the building. 

"Hey!"

Stiles attempts to snatch his arm out of Peter's firm grip, but the man growls once and that rumble is enough to shut Stiles up instantly. He follows quietly with Peter's hand still warming him through the thin fabric of his shirt. He can't focus on anything else but the way Peter's fingers feel against that soft, sensitive spot on his inner elbow.

It's almost erotic. 

When they reach the Jeep, Stiles pulls his keys out of his pocket only to have them snatched out of his hand. 

He sighs, but doesn't dare say anything. 

The key gets jammed in the lock like it always does, but when it finally opens, Peter practically pushes him into the driver seat.

Okay, so Peter doesn’t want him here, point taken. Stiles knows it was a stupid idea to come here, he should have never even started his research binge to begin with, but this hurts. He starts the car, attempting to ignore the little twinge in his chest at the thought of Peter pushing him away even if it is expected.

The tears start to well up in Stiles eyes, but he blinks them back and clenches his jaw against the temptation to say something stupid. 

Stiles waits, but Peter doesn’t leave. Instead, the man rounds the front of the vehicle, climbs into the passenger seat, and growls out a single word. 

“Drive.”

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

Peter's apartment is dark when they arrive, the only source of light a small lamp in the corner of the room. Stiles plops down in a winged-back reading chair like he owns the goddamn place. 

The werewolf seems a little on-edge, so Stiles looks around while Peter pours himself a drink from his personal liquor cart. Who even has a liquor cart in their house? Stiles scoffs in his head. Probably the same guy who has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and no TV.

He surveys the room, noting that Peter's place is surprisingly homey, and takes in every detail — this is the first and probably last time he'll ever see it, after all — and it's just...not what he expected. Not that he was anticipating seeing Peter's place ever or that it'd be a super villain cave or something, but —

Peter turns sharply to glare at him and Stiles stills abruptly, realizing that his fingers and toes had been tapping out an annoying rhythm to a bygone song he's since forgotten the lyrics to. He reigns his hands back into his lap. 

When Peter turns back to the task at hand, Stiles' eyes linger over those broad shoulders, muscles straining and stretching under the man's taught dress shirt. Stiles silently thanks the heavens that the jacket came off the second they walked through the door. Peter's arms are a work of art and he almost feels unworthy of watching them in action, so strong and —

Peter tenses.

"I see you took our conversation to heart," he begins, but his musings aren't as disimpassioned as they usually are. There's an edge to it. "What I don't know, is how you got from a mere suggestion, a subtle one, I might add, to a full-fledged BDSM club in less than a week."

"The computer screen can only tell me so much," Stiles shrugs, but he knows it's the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth. Peter snaps. 

"This isn't something you can treat like a hookup, Stiles!" He bellows. Stiles shrinks into the chair and Peter drops his voice into something more like a growl. "You’ll end up at the mercy of a man like Deucalion and I won't be able to protect you." 

Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains. 

"I don't need you to protect me, Peter," Stiles retorts, jumping up from the chair. "I wasn't going to do anything tonight anyway, I just wanted to know more about it."

Before Peter can respond, Stiles tacks on, "What did you expect? You can't lead me into something like this and not think I'll follow through." 

"No, but I _expected_ you to come to me first." 

Stiles' eyebrows reach for his hairline. What?

"What?"

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling himself for whatever's coming next. Stiles' hands clench, nails digging into his skin.

"I thought we could..." Peter trails off, carefully choosing his words. "...have a mutually beneficial relationship." 

"What?"

Jesus, he sounds like a broken record. Luckily, Peter's too busy thinking three steps ahead to notice.

"You would benefit from giving someone else the reigns for awhile and I need control," Peter answers smoothly. He shrugs for good measure. "It made sense when I thought about it."

A series of images play though his mind like a vintage camera roll with Stiles in increasingly lewd positions. His dick starts getting hard just thinking about it. 

And knowing Peter has had those same thoughts? That _Peter_ has thought about Stiles naked? Well, that's just —

Peter sighs loudly and pinches the bridge of his nose again, "Stiles, how much do you actually know about BDSM?" 

"Uhhh," Stiles fumbles. Where is Peter going with this?

"It's not necessarily sexual, Stiles," Peter adds, like it's obvious, and ouch. That hurts. Stiles wants to turn about thirty shades of red in embarrassment. Of course Peter wouldn't want Stiles like that. 

"Oh, yeah," Stiles coughs, "Right. I - I knew that." 

Peter stares. Stiles debates just saying 'no thanks' and leaving before this gets anymore awkward, but Peter crosses the room to stand in front of him. 

"You can say no at any point, Stiles," Peter says lowly, "I respect you too much to do anything that would lose your trust, I hope you know that." 

Stiles nods. This is the most honest and open he's ever seen the man and he can't quite believe it. 

"Let me show you," he murmurs and Stiles shudders, nodding once more. 

"Verbal consent, Stiles."   
  
Stiles licks his lips and Peter's eyes track the movement. He swallows thickly. 

"Yes," Stiles whispers into the void between them, "Show me." 

Peter steps into his personal space. Those bright blue eyes drop to where Stiles' teeth nibble on his lower lip before Peter's hand slowly comes up to tug it away with his thumb. 

Stiles has no more blood in his brain because it's all gone to his dick. 

"Turn around," Peter smirks. 

Stiles, for once, does as he's told. Peter steps up behind him, not close enough to touch, but enough that Stiles can feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath just skirting the nape of his neck. Peter's hands come up to rest on his shoulders and _holy fuuuuck —_ there's no way he's going to survive this. 

But Stiles is wrong again, because if anyone can turn a seemingly sexual situation into a lecture, it's Peter. The man talks lowly in his ear explaining the ins-and-outs of BDSM, the give and take, the control and submission. He blathers on about trust between partners, dedication to the scene, blah blah blah. Stiles stops listening to the content after the fifth sentence, zoning out to the melodic cadence of Peter's voice instead. 

The man's hands massage his shoulders lightly as he speaks, lulling him into some sort of trance, eyelids drooping by the second. He could probably take a nap standing up. 

"Stiles," Peter says sharply, snapping him out of his daze and into attention, "Alphabetize the left bookshelf by last name, organize the right by publishing date. When you're done, come back to the couch and kneel on the pillow. Go now." 

Peter's instructions are clear and Stiles gets to work. It takes him nearly an hour because Peter has so many fucking books he practically owns a library, but Stiles likes it. His arms are sore by the end of it and he feels a sense of accomplishment when he steps back to take a look at his handy work. The shelves even _look_ better now that they are organized in some fashion. 

It's strangely cathartic. 

Stiles can barely tear his eyes away from the symmetry of the book spines, but he kneels on the pillow next to Peter's legs in anticipation. It should feel weird, but it doesn’t.

"You did wonderful, Stiles," Peter says warmly, "I'm very proud of you." 

Warmth floods him at the thought of pleasing Peter and doing a job well-done. Part of him thinks he should be ashamed for being so easily swayed, but he's too relaxed to really care. 

Peter's hand comes to rest on the top of his head, carding through his hair and that's all it takes for Stiles to sigh happily and rest his head against Peter's knee. Over and over again, Peter’s hand runs through his hair, nails grazing his scalp and sending tingles of pleasure down his spine.

Stiles absently notes that his dick is still hard, but he doesn’t feel the need to do anything about it. Peter’s hand in his hair feels better than his own hand on his cock ever could.

 _Huh_ , maybe Peter was right about the not necessarily sexual part after all.

With drooping eyelids, Stiles just enjoys his reward, because that’s exactly what this is. Peter’s hand never stops moving. 

He's not sure how long they stay like that, but it's long enough for Stiles to zone out like a space cadet, his mind free of any racing thoughts. It's the most calm he's been since his mom died and the realization startles him a bit.

He floats in la-la-land until Peter's hand stills.

"Stiles," Peter asks quietly, "Do you want to continue?"

It was inevitable really, that Stiles would end up here, on his knees in front of Peter, a resounding _yes_ falling from his lips.


	5. oh yeah, you're right, I want it

“Yes.”

Peter hauls Stiles up into his lap, all flailing limbs and unintelligible squawks, settling him across his thighs like it's the most natural thing in the world. They are roughly the same height, but Stiles feels dwarfed by the man’s broad shoulders and thick arms. 

He feels safe here.

And if that isn’t a red flag indicator for the state of his mental health, then the Earth is flat. 

But despite the safety, comfort, and contented vibes Stiles is soaking up right now, he can’t help but note that he’s never been this close to Peter before. Peter waits patiently, letting him look his fill and, not for the first time, Stiles finds himself staring. 

Peter’s face is _right there_ , so close Stiles can make out the fine laugh lines around the corners of his eyes and the texture of his lips; he can see the faintest of freckles dashing across Peter’s nose and cheeks that he never noticed before; he follows the wispy hairs of the man’s sideburns where they flip out at the ends, in desperate need of a haircut; and this close, he can see the light refracting in Peter’s eyes like a lantern illuminating a cavern full of crystals. 

The man is a work of art. 

Peter’s mouth parts softly, tongue darting out to swipe along his bottom lip and it’s then that Stiles realizes he’s had his eyes fixed on Peter’s mouth for far too long, his hands gripping the man’s forearms far too tightly. When he finally pulls his eyes away, Peter is watching him intently, gaze sharpened into that of a cunning predator. 

“Like what you see?” 

It’s normally such a cheesy line, but not when it’s coming from Peter’s perfect mouth.

Stiles nods automatically, then panics when he realizes what he’s done. Embarrassment floods across his cheeks in a striking shade of pink and he shrinks into himself even while draped across Peter’s lap. 

“No, no,” Peter chastises, lifting Stiles’ chin with a single finger, “None of that.” 

Stiles tilts his head up under the pressure of Peter’s hand, but his eyes don’t follow. They can’t. 

His mom always said eyes were the doorway to the soul and there's no telling what secrets Peter might discover.

Peter doesn’t really give him the option though. 

“Look at me, Stiles.” 

His voice is rough and gravely, hinting at some deeper emotion that his face never shows. The tone sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine generating a full-body shudder that causes him to brush against the now obvious bulge in Peter’s trousers. 

On a gasp, Stiles looks up.

“That’s it,” Peter smiles softly and it’s like Stiles’ entire world has shifted on an axis. None of the insecurities that plagued him seconds ago even matter because Peter Hale is _smiling._ Peter Hale, the man who lost nearly his entire family, killed another in retribution, and has every reason to frown, is smiling. The man who made Stiles' high school years a nightmare, taught him how to find his spark, stayed with him during late-night research binges, protected him during supernatural fights, always took his side in pack meetings, the one who's never done more than grin — that man is smiling, _for Stiles_.

How the man can seem so soft yet still apex predator Stiles will never know, he only knows how much he likes seeing this side of Peter. 

“Peter,” he whispers, voice trembling with emotion, in awe of how quickly he slipped past the barriers Peter put up ages ago, the ones Stiles always poked at metaphorically. Why now? Why is Peter opening up to him _now_? Stiles can't find the words, nothing could ever encompass what he's feeling right now. 

He fiddles with the top button on Peter’s shirt until the man speaks again. Part of him marvels at the idea of touching the wolf so close to his neck, the other part of him wonders if he’s going to get his fingers bitten. 

“Stiles, if you’re going to do this, you have to feel comfortable talking to your Dom. This isn’t the time to be shy.”

Peter’s rubs a hand down his back and it’s surprisingly soothing.

“Not that I ever anticipated that from you,” Peter adds and Stiles chokes out a laugh. The warmth of Peter's hand seeps through Stiles’ shirt as easy as water, blanketing him in that safe space once more.

Stiles once heard that love makes the shy brave and the brave shy, or something like that. Not that he’s in love or anything, he's not —

“I’m not shy, it’s just…” 

Stiles suspects that he’s in some sort of shock right now, he almost doesn’t believe that he’s here in Peter’s apartment, in _his lap._ The night’s events haven’t quite caught up to him yet. Once again, Stiles finds himself unable to find the right words.

But Peter knows. He always does.

“Too intimate?”

Stiles nods. 

“You’ll get there.” 

Peter stands from the couch with Stiles in his arms, placing him gently on the ground with a hand on his hip for balance. Stiles barely has time to readjust before they’re moving again. 

“C’mon,” Peter says, tugging him by the hand, “Let’s talk.”

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

“And what else?” 

“Um, safe words?” 

“Good,” Peter replies, bringing two cups of fresh coffee to the dining table and sitting himself at an angle to Stiles, who’s somehow at the head of the table. 

Peter asked him what he knew about BDSM and, when faced with saying it out loud, the list is very short: Doms, subs, switches. Scenes. Safe words.

If Peter starts getting into a list of kinks, Stiles might have a hard time controlling his dick. 

“Did your research turn up anything on contracts?”

“Um, maybe a little,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his arm absently, “I didn’t really pay much attention to that.” 

Because honestly, what guy would when there's a ton of new porn to explore? His hindbrain conveniently supplies an image of the young sub trussed up in rope and leather, kneeling in front of his well-dressed Dom and eyeing the bulge in his pants greedily. That was one of Stiles favorites. 

Peter clears his throat and Stiles snaps back to reality. What was the question? Oh yeah, Stiles doesn't necessarily like the idea of putting a contract on his sex life. He says as much. 

Peter rolls his eyes in true fashion. 

“That’s one of the most important pieces, Stiles." 

That sharp tone is back, that rough-around-the-edges thing that Stiles can't put a name to. Why is Peter so hung up on contracts? Clearly _that_ is the reason he stepped in with Deucalion. But why? 

Stiles drops that line of questioning when he realizes Peter is still talking. 

"You have to have a frank, open discussion with your Dom about what you like, what you don’t like, what you’re willing to try...and you have to know the same about them. That's the only thing you — ”

“What if I don’t know what I like?”

The words are out before he can clasp a hand over his runaway mouth.

Peter’s eyes widen a fraction. 

“You…”

He trails off and Stiles is a bundle of nerves again. God dammit, why is he like this? Why must he always put his foot in his mouth? Stiles wants nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole. 

Peter clears his throat, “You’re a virgin?”

Stiles focuses on his twiddling thumbs, but answers firmly, "With men, yes."

Peter makes an odd noise and Stiles looks up, surprised to find the man with his eyes shut tight and hands balled into fists. Stiles hones in on the muscle ticking in his jaw and wonders what about that makes Peter so upset. Surely he didn't think Stiles had taken a spin around the sexual block when he'd just gotten in the car last year.

Stiles feels about two feet tall at the moment and is tempted to leave before this gets any more embarrassing. A half-second before he starts to move, Peter's nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. 

Stiles swears that he saw Peter’s eyes flash just as he opened them, but he can’t be sure.

“Then make sure you find a Dom who is willing to go slow, show you things at your own pace," he grinds out and Stiles can't tell if he's mad, sad, or bored. Peter has that magical ability to shield himself from the world and despite dropping those walls earlier, they are clearly back up now.

"It’s important, Stiles.” 

It sounds like it pains Peter to say that out loud and —

Oh. 

An icy fist seizes Stiles' heart. 

_Oh._

And it shatters.

Because it’s then that Stiles realizes Peter does not want to be that person for him. 


	6. killing me slow

He feels like an idiot. 

Sure, Stiles was under the impression that Peter was assuming his role as Stiles’ Dom, not giving him advice as a mere _mentor_ , but Stiles had no right to assume — and he’s paying the price for it. 

His heart is shattering into a million pieces for no goddamn reason. 

Peter’s nostrils flare again and his expression morphs into one of concern and confusion. He’s moving quickly, reaching out with those deft hands Stiles has spent way too many hours staring at and _gods,_ does it hurt. 

Stiles feels his spark flare to the surface to throw out a hasty shield, one that will mask his heartbeat and his scent. Protection. He can’t let Peter know —

“Stiles, what’s wrong?”

Peter asks urgently, practically growling, his muscles tensing in preparation. For what, Stiles has no idea. He only knows that he has to get out of here before he does something stupid, like ugly cry, and there are tears building that could expose him at any moment. 

He’s loved Peter for too long for it to —

Stiles flies out of the chair like he’s on fire and Peter is quick to follow, hands shooting out to grab Stiles’ arms but hang mid-air when Stiles flinches back. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to modulate his voice as best he can with an ugly sob threatening to escape from his chest. 

“Thanks for the advice, Peter,” he says blandly, staring at the floor and shaking with nerves. 

“Stiles?” 

Peter says his name more frantically this time. Stiles turns away, unwilling to witness Peter’s face showing more concern now than he has in the last three years combined. He heads for the door with the werewolf hot on his heels.

“What did you do?” Peter asks, voice becoming more of a growl with every word. If Stiles weren’t acting out of necessity, he might feel bad. “Why can’t I smell you?” 

Stiles doesn’t answer because they both know damn well Stiles is using a shield. What Peter is really asking is _why_. When no answer is forthcoming, Peter snaps.

“Stiles!” he bellows, eyes flaring Alpha red as his teeth sharpen. He’s past Stiles and at the door in two seconds flat, blocking the one and only exit. 

Stiles can feel his heartbeat kick into overdrive and anger consumes the hurt. 

“Peter, move,” he demands, fists clenching. If Peter doesn’t want Stiles to be his sub, fine, but Stiles isn’t going to be his hostage either. Stiles is prepared to knock Peter on his ass with his spark if he needs to. 

He seethes.

Even with the shield, Peter knows him well enough to see the change. He pants rhythmically as he calms down, eyes fading back to their normal brilliant blue, claws and fangs retracting. 

The few moments of silence are like a metaphorical chill pill for Stiles. He feels the anger bleed out of him and all that’s left is a world of hurt and pure exhaustion. He just wants to go home and sleep it off. 

“Not until you talk to me, Stiles,” he says, voice ragged, and _Jesus Christ_ , Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard Peter like this. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I can’t stand — ”

“Can’t stand the idea of being my Dom?” Stiles spits. “Yeah, got that part. Loud and clear. Now let me go.” 

Peter jerks back as though he’s been slapped.

“What?”

His expression scrunches in confusion again, eyes darting back and forth like he’s reviewing every word of their conversation in his head. He deflates like a popped balloon. 

“Look, Peter, I get it — ”

“Stiles, I never said I didn’t want to be your Dom,” Peter interrupts, blowing out a heavy sigh. “I approached you about this, remember? I just didn’t want to push — ” 

Peter’s words are a nod to their earlier conversation and, _shit_ , he’s right — he did say he thought they could have a mutually beneficial relationship which conveniently reminds Stiles about that other thing Peter mentioned. That BDSM relationships are “not necessarily sexual” and Stiles feels like an idiot. 

“ — that you’re not ready for.” 

Stiles zoned out and totally missed the last half of Peter’s spiel, but he thinks he’s figured it out now. When Peter brought up contracts, Stiles had off-handedly said he didn’t want a contract on his sex life. Which Peter clearly isn’t into. Of course he’d want to back out and let Stiles go his own way. 

Obviously. 

But Peter still wants to be his Dom. 

Does Stiles want that? Does he want to explore BDSM without the sex? With how frantically his heart is beating in his chest at the thought of submitting to anyone other than Peter, the answer is clear. 

“So you _do_ want to be my Dom...without the sexual stuff?” He asks, just to make sure. He never pegged Peter ( _heh)_ as asexual with as much as he flirts, but weirder things have happened. 

“Yes, if that’s what you want,” Peter replies smoothly, back to his usual cavalier affect, but there’s a pinch to his eyes Stiles can’t quite decipher.

It’s worth a shot right? Stiles shoves his hands into his pockets and bobs his head in a pathetic attempt to appear casual. 

“Cool, cool.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

Peter shakes his head and huffs a laugh. 

“Verbal consent. Is that a _yes_?” He asks, stressing the last word.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, — yes, that’s a yes.” 

Peter rolls his eyes and grins at him fondly. 

“Clearly we’re going to have to work on communication.” 

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

“I think that covers the logistics,” Peter says, shuffling his papers into a neater stack. “The last things to discuss are —

Stiles’ stomach chooses that moment to gurgle so loudly he’s pretty sure the neighbor heard it. Peter narrows his eyes, gives Stiles his best ‘disappointed daddy’ look and dammit if that doesn’t _do things_ to him. 

He squirms in his chair. 

“Stiles, what did you have for dinner?”

“Umm.” 

Stiles ate before he left the apartment. He definitely did. He’s...just having a hard time remembering when. And what. But he totally did. 

Right?

Peter sighs heavily and stands from the table. 

“As I was saying, we need to discuss _rules_ ,” he remarks mildly, giving Stiles a pointed look when he mentions rules and Stiles can already tell that remembering to eat will be one of them. He rolls his eyes. 

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

_Uh-oh._

“Uhh...no?”

Peter stalks toward Stiles like a predator mid-hunt preparing to pounce, bracketing Stiles in with a hand on the table and the other on the back of his chair. Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest when Peter leans in. 

“I’m going to let that slide because we haven’t discussed rules yet,” Peter says slowly, “But don’t ever expect to get away with that sort of bratty behavior again. I will turn you over my knee so quickly, you — ”

Stiles chokes on his own spittle at the idea of squirming in Peter’s lap with a naked, red ass on display. 

Peter’s eyes narrow and he adds thoughtfully, “Perhaps we’ll need to discuss punishments as well. You won’t like my spankings, Stiles.”

Stiles is pretty fucking sure he would, but he’s not going to argue with the man right now. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“That’s better,” Peter says, “I’m going to make dinner, and _you_ are going to sit right here and read through these last few pages. When you get to the addendums, stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

Stiles feels the inexplicable need to add on an honorific, but he doesn’t even know what Peter likes. 

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, swiping a hand over Stiles’ head and down his shoulder in a not-so-subtle scenting. Stiles finds it kind of endearing. 

And sexy as fuck. 

His eyes automatically focus on Peter’s ass when the man strides toward the kitchen and Stiles has a private moment of mourning over the fact that he’ll never get to see it naked.

Stiles sighs, drawing his eyes back to the papers in front of him and starts reading.

RULES

The submissive shall agree to and abide by all rules the Dominant has set forth below unless otherwise discussed and agreed to. If the submissive fails to abide by these rules, the Dominant will choose an appropriate punishment from the list defined later in this contract. 

The Rules are as follows: 

  * The submissive shall show respect to his/her Dominant at all times.
  * The submissive will always refer to his/her Dominant by the preferred honorific(s): _________________
  * All orders should be promptly complied to and diligently executed without hesitation. If necessary, the submissive will use the selected safeword to further discuss the order with his/her Dominant.
  * The submissive will agree to any activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities that are outlined in the Hard Limits section of this contract (see Addendum 1).
  * While under contract with the Dominant, the submissive shall not enter into any other relationships, sexual or otherwise, unless pre-approved by the Dominant. 



Record scratch. _What?_

Why would Peter include a clause about sexual relationships if he’s asexual? Especially when he made it perfectly clear he does not want Stiles as his submissive in a sexual capacity? Surely it’s not in there for Stiles’ sake because he hasn’t been on a date in months. 

Stiles struggles over that for a few moments before he decides Peter probably pulled this contract off of the internet and hadn’t had a chance to edit it yet. 

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. 

As for any activities deemed “fit and pleasurable,” Stiles is going to withhold judgement until he actually sees the list. 

Stiles spots a pen next to Peter’s contract and swipes it, quickly circling numbers 2 and 5. He moves on, wanting to get through the entire thing before Peter finishes making dinner. 

  * Serious discussions surrounding this contract, rules, and/or the relationship between the Dominant and submissive shall not take place while either party is driving a vehicle, under the influence of any substances, or emotionally compromised.



_Emotionally compromised?_ What the fuck does that even mean? Jesus Christ. 

  * Both the Dominant and submissive recognize that their behavior is a direct reflection on the other partner. The Dominant and the submissive shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of each other.
  * The submissive shall bring any physical, emotional, or mental concerns to the direct attention of the Dominant immediately. If in a scene, the submissive shall use the selected safeword to initiate such a discussion. 
  * Any additional rules set forth by the Dominant will pertain to a scene and shall be discussed and agreed upon prior to beginning said event. 



***** _While t_ _he Dominant understands the importance of having his/her submissive make their own lifestyle decisions, the Dominant strongly suggests that the submissive exercise regularly, eat a healthy, well-balanced diet, and maintain acceptable grooming standards. If the submissive has any questions related to this request, he/she may feel free to discuss with the Dominant at an appropriate time._

Welp, Stiles is going to circle that one, too, even if it isn’t listed as an actual rule. He really hopes Peter doesn’t want him to wax, well, everything. 

All in all, it’s not too bad. Not as...controlling...as Stiles thought it would be. He turns the page and stops short when he reads the title.

ADDENDUM 1 - KINKS

Of course the first thing Stiles sees is an entry for _Anal Sex_ and promptly closes the contract with more force than necessary. Jesus Christ, how is he hard just from reading a fucking _contract_? 

Stiles then wonders how in the world he’s going to discuss his sexual interests with a man who doesn’t want to have sex with him. Peter’s going to smell how turned on he is and damn — life just isn’t fair, dude.

“Finished?”

Peter’s smooth voice floats in from the kitchen along with the smell of home-cooked spaghetti. 

“Yep,” Stiles replies, popping the ‘p’ and rocking back on the hind legs of the chair. “Read the rules, stopped at the addendums.” 

“Good. Now put all four legs of that chair on the ground, please.” 

Stiles feels suitably chastised as he brings the chair back to its normal position. Of course Peter is going to be a stickler for rules and decorum. Stiles wants to scoff or roll his eyes at that, but he’s also sure Peter wouldn’t like that. 

And for some strange reason, he doesn’t want to disappoint the man. 

Peter plants a heaping pile of spaghetti in front of him and Stiles drools. The meatballs are the size of potatoes and the garlic bread looks homemade. How in the world did he whip this up so quickly?

Stiles dives right in before Peter even makes it to his seat. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles moans around a mouthful of meatball. 

Peter’s steps falter for a split second and Stiles grins. His moans tend to do that to people, asexual or not. 

“I take it you like it?” Peter asks as he drops gracefully into the seat and begins eating like the refined gentleman he is while Stiles continues shoveling food into his mouth like a wildebeest. 

“So good,” he manages with a half loaf of garlic bread in his cheek.

“Good. I’ll send you home with the leftovers then, if that will get you to eat,” Peter says with a raised brow and _dammit_ that does things to Stiles. Why is he like this?

They dine in relative silence until Peter finally asks the question that’s _clearly_ been plaguing him for the last five minutes if furrowed brows and jaw ticks are anything to go by.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?”

“No, I’d actually planned on — ”

Stiles slams his mouth shut when he realizes that telling Peter he’d planned on either hooking up with someone and crashing at their place or sleeping in his Jeep tonight is probably not in his own best interest right now. 

“I’d, uh, actually planned on doing some homework and…that’s it.”

Peter’s eyes narrow because they both know damn well his heart skipped over that pathetic excuse of a lie, but Peter knows when to pick his battles. The man stares him down with more intensity than Stiles' libido can handle. 

“Stay with me tonight.”


End file.
